


Facets

by oohshinyfangirl



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Diary/Journal, F/F, F/M, Flashbacks, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:32:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oohshinyfangirl/pseuds/oohshinyfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Gems are nothing but stones from the earth - rocks – after all. It takes hard striking and deep cuts to bring out the beauty that lies within.</p>
<p>Spoilers: Not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Facets

**Author's Note:**

> This story was over five years in the writing. Piecemeal, the entries kept coming until I finally felt it was finished in 2004. It was the last story I wrote in the X-Files fandom and it has never seen wide distribution 
> 
> I'd never written either of these characters before this story and don't know why I had the audacity to even attempt getting into the main character's head. She was always such a cipher to me. I think that's why I never mention her by name, although, hopefully, her identity will become clear by the end of the story. Her initials are in the end notes.

***************  
First Entry  
***************  
  
I begin this with the fervent hope that I will realize or discover some deep-seated meaning to my dreams - which of late have become exceedingly erotic - some meaning other than that I haven't had sex in over five years. Haven't held another person in three. Haven't had anyone touch me, other than incidentally, in two.  
  
I can't explain the rush of sadness that overwhelms me when I awake and discover that I am alone and that my latest escapade is just that: another escapade in the dream life of a person who is defined by what she does, not who she is.  
  
I'm grasping at straws, hoping the dreams mean more, or other, than what they seem. I hope putting the images down on paper will purge them from my mind and body.   
  
From my heart.  
  
But they are so vivid! Although the content is sexual at times - most times - maybe I should say they are sensual, rather than erotic. Everything is magnified. Each touch is unbearably exquisite, each taste overwhelmingly flavorful, each scent intoxicatingly gorgeous, each sound beautifully harmonic, and each sight breathtakingly lovely.   
  
I relive my past, detail to detail to detail. Some of them are horrid, things I really would rather not remember. Others are like experiencing again the most amazing, erotic, sensual experiences of my life. I come awake still convulsing from intense orgasms, crying for the past that's irretrievably gone, for the girl that was, the girl I've lost in the woman I've become.  
  
***************  
Second Entry  
***************  
  
I am laying facedown, head cradled in my arms, on a beach float - an inflated raft of air - adrift in a large swimming pool. It is sunny, warm but not hot, with a pleasant light breeze. There is no one at the pool but me and I am very comfortable. The float is a pale transparent turquoise, the same shade as the pool bottom and sides, so that it seems I am rocking on the surface of the water itself, with no support. I feel very good, content in my body, exactly the right temperature. My toes are dangling down into the water. The sun is a light brush of warmth on the backs of my shoulder blades.   
  
I am topless.  
  
My breasts are lapped by cool water that has collected on the raft. My body feels light, weightless, as if I'll rise from the surface or sink slowly beneath, held suspended. I smell the lovely sharp odor of chlorine with the faintest tang of Coppertone suntan lotion. It's a summer scent, one that takes me nostalgically back to my fourteenth year, the year I first saw a penis.   
  
My first glimpse is from the bottom of the dive ladder - watching Randall Scott climb to the high board. He's so gorgeous: long dark hair, plenty of lean muscles and a bronze tan from life guarding. His red swim shorts are loose in the leg and he's semi-erect from watching Sheri Beth Langtry jiggle her way across the tile between the bleachers and the pool. I stand, openmouthed, looking in awe at this flesh, so different from my own, feeling overly warm and a little flushed. My nipples stand up and the crotch of my sensible blue tank suit, so unlike Sheri Beth's bikini, becomes wetter than pool water. I don't even know what I'm looking at, not really, only know that my body knows and wants. There is a deep ache inside me when the sun glints off his hair just so, tossing off deep red highlights.   
  
He's two years older and he's one of my best friends. He's never looked at me the way he looks at Sheri Beth, the way I look at him when he's not paying attention.   
  
Randy executes a neat jackknife, cutting into the water cleanly. When he climbs from the water, he's no longer erect. Cooling off in the pool works for him, but not for me. I cannonball off the high dive, too terrified to go face first from that height. I emerge, bottom stinging from the impact of smacking water, even more flushed than before.   
  
He jumps in and splashes me as I come up, and we tussle a little: me grabbing a quick handful of cute butt, accidentally, of course, and him brushing the knuckles of one hand over my right nipple, truly accidentally, I believe. His eyes meet mine for a second, showing something, some awareness that wasn't there a moment ago. I'm shivering, but not cold, no, not cold at all. One corner of his mouth tilts up, a sexy half-smile he's given to Sheri Beth but never to me. Then he dodges away, tossing more water at me.   
  
***************  
Third Entry  
***************  
  
The physical act of writing is luxurious, done with impunity, upside down and backwards - white on black instead of black on white.   
  
Some things make no sense other than feeling.  
  
Rich, redolent. Decadent.   
  
Awake, my nipples peak as I relive the moments in my dreams. I do that, over and over, because if I do not, they fade so quickly and I don't think I could bear the loss of that feeling. The only feeling I truly have right now, I'm ashamed to admit. I've held myself closed off for so long now, betrayed so many, that I'm frightened I will never again waken with another, that I'll be doomed to a relationship with a vibrator and my fantasy life.   
  
Not that I currently own a vibrator.   
  
***************  
Fourth Entry  
***************  
  
sandy coppertone   
and the scent of chlorine  
the hole in the sky  
where the sun was  
shone down so bright  
the sound of water beating  
at the shoreline  
gravel taking their licks   
grinding down to sand  
  
caesura   
cease  
  
susurration  
sun sand scent   
silhouettes sweat  
simple shiny skin  
sleek sensual sexy  
summer  
  
***************  
Fifth Entry  
***************  
  
Capture a moment, hold it to examine. Slow it down; look at it from all sides, all angles, all points of view.   
  
If I do this, maybe I will be free.   
  
Free from loneliness.   
  
Free from guilt.  
  
We made love the day he died. It was good, better than a first time had a right to be. He was tender and generous, far more experienced than I was, but that was ok, it was Randy.   
  
Randy, my first love.  
  
I can't. I just can't.  
  
***************  
Sixth Entry  
***************  
  
I don't know if I can stand this. Stand having my heart wrenched as I come, coming awake as I do, finding myself alone in my twisted sheets.   
  
It should have been me. It should have been me.   
  
***************  
Seventh Entry  
***************  
  
Radio doesn't sound quite right to me now. The reception is too good, the sound reproduction too crisp and clean. Radio, in my mind, should always be the way it was that summer: tinny, complete album sides, hardly any commercials, poor reception.   
  
The radio plays sex all that summer. _Surrender_ plays endlessly, endlessly. So does _Good Girls Don't_. And a song that I am alternately intrigued by and afraid of: _Kiss You All Over_.   
  
It's explosively hot. The overhead is off, but there is plenty of light leaking through the white cotton curtains blowing in and out of the tiny window. The door is locked and we're halfway home.  
  
Sweat is trickling down my sides, under the Love's Baby Soft. We've got our shirts off and we're slick with the heat in his attic room. My cutoffs are down around one ankle, sandals lost somewhere.   
  
Kisses.   
  
Wet, openmouthed.   
  
My temples, my forehead, the spot between eye and nose. That's a good, sweet spot, and he returns to it again and again. His hair, long, soft and silky, brushes my face, caressing my cheek. I blow in his ear, then lightly lick, finally closing my teeth on his lobe, tugging at the small silver hoop he wears in his left ear.   
  
He smells so good, so good.  
  
We're lying on our sides, facing one another. He has one leg between mine, so that we can rock against each other. His erection presses insistently into my hip as my legs encircle his strong thigh.   
  
My panties are getting very damp.   
  
I wonder, absently, if he can tell, if he can feel my moisture against his leg.   
  
I peek at him through half-closed lashes. He's propped up on one elbow with his eyes open and he's staring at my breasts as he touches them. He's gentle at first, then more firm as I arch into his hands. He plays with my nipples, lightly brushing them, then pinching them between thumbs and forefingers, rolling them. Every time he rolls them I feel a sharp tug between my legs.  
  
He moves down, settling near my breast. Licking all around it, blowing hot breath across it. His tongue flicks over my nipple then he starts sucking, alternating with quick licks, making me shiver uncontrollably, despite the heat.  
  
He looks up at me and asks me if I want to stop, if I'm ok, his voice deeper than usual. I look at him, at his green eyes, and make one of the best decisions in my life.   
  
Maybe the only good decision I've ever made.  
  
We've been here before, at this same point, and one or the other of us always has drawn back, cooled down, the timing not quite right. His parents or mine in the house.   
  
But not today. Today we're alone with no chance of being interrupted. It has to be today.   
  
I want to see, see what I've been imagining for the past year as I've touched myself.   
  
Fumbling, I manage to get the button of his cutoffs open and his zipper down, pushing. He helps me get them to his knees, then kicks reflexively, the shorts landing somewhere. His gasp as I reach out on my own to touch what I had seen last year so briefly at the pool, what I knew would capture that moment that was just beyond what we were, is unexpectedly loud and stark. The sound makes something twist inside me, something that connects heart and heat, flesh to soul.  
  
I let my first touch on him linger, enjoying the differences between us. He is silky, incredibly supple and strong. His gasp turns into a very deep groan and his shaft trembles, moves within my hand, his eyes closed now.   
  
He leaves my breast and his tongue plunges deep into my mouth, kissing me deep, fucking my mouth, slow and thorough. He tastes of smoke and mint, a combination that drives me insane, and will forever be his.  
  
I whimper, then moan, as one of his hands slides beneath the elastic of my panties from behind, two fingers teasing my opening. His other hand comes from the front, stroking me, the base of his finger rubbing my most sensitive spot, that place that makes constellations whirl when I touch it at night.  
  
I can't wait, I can't wait, I can't wait.   
  
He's whispering harshly in my ear about how sweet I am, how much he's enjoying kissing me, how good my mouth feels, how hot I'm making him. About how my hand on him makes him want to come, come right now. About how he wants me, wants to take me, to be in me, in that wet heat he's touching. About how he wants me to come, to let go, to let him take care of me, how he's gonna make me feel so good, so fucking good, baby.  
  
Oh, I want all those things, want them in a visceral, bone-deep dawning of realization that all of them are here, right here, and I'm going to make all of my fantasies real.  
  
Together, we pull off my panties. I lose my concentration on his cock as he spreads my legs further, hooking one over his hip as he puts both hands on me again, circling then stroking up and down over my clit, varying the pressure, the two fingers that had been teasing now sliding inside me, fingering me slow, then fast, then slow again. I cry out, convulsing - all the air goes out of the room as his hands synchronize, the one circling stroking circling oh god the other two fingers fucking me faster.  
  
I come, I come really hard, and I have no idea what I'm doing -   
  
  
Jesus.   
  
Randy.   
  
***************  
Eighth Entry  
***************  
  
Sometimes, I wonder if life is fantasy, and if the things that we do are our own imaginings.  
  
What, exactly, is it that makes the things we do real? Is it the fact that we are alive? What does that mean, alive? To have life, according to my Webster's.  
  
I suppose it doesn't really matter. As I read once, in some long forgotten story, it doesn't matter if something's real.   
  
It only matters if it's true.   
  
***************  
Ninth Entry  
***************  
  
I'm with Alex in a dank hallway. Most of our clothes are still on, only the pertinent parts revealed to groping hands and probing tongues. He's on his knees in front of me, head buried beneath my skirt. One of my legs is draped over his shoulder, to give him better access. His tongue dives deep inside me, then whipcracks against my sensitive clitoris, his teeth scraping as he sucks me. He's eating me viciously, bringing me to orgasm after orgasm, not letting me rest, but making me come and come. Just when I think I can't take any more, he shoves the thumb of his prosthesis into my quivering, aching body. I drop out of the sky, screaming.  
  
***************  
Tenth Entry  
***************  
  
The lens of memory is deceptive. Sometimes it’s clear, revealing every nuance. Other times, only fragments, disillusioned by circumstances and scenery, can be seen.  
  
Guilt distorts. Time bends.   
  
I am polishing that lens. I need to see clearly. If I have to, I will shatter it, and pick up what I can from the shards. I need to get past my own reflection.  
  
***************  
Eleventh Entry  
***************  
  
Randy was good to me when he took my virginity. He took his time with me, not just taking for taking's sake, but making sure he gave me pleasure, enjoying the giving as well as the taking.   
  
Now I know exactly how rare that is.   
  
When I came, I thought that was it. He was going to climb on top of me and fuck me - senseless if I was lucky - and I wanted that, wanted what I had heard about in whispers and saw in the sharp, gimlet-eyed measuring grins of other girls.  
  
But that's not what happened. Randy was never one to go with the crowd, or to do the expected thing. He was a true individual in an age of clones.  
  
After I come, I tug at his hands. It's too much; I'm too sensitive to bear even the lightest touch on my clit. I regain control of my limbs, which are trembling all over with aftershocks. Suddenly voracious, I push him over onto his back, kissing him, sucking his tongue, my hands sliding down his slick belly, one circling his cock, the other cupping his balls.  
  
He shudders. No, no, baby, not yet, he says, leading my hands up to his nipples. Here, touch me here instead. I don't want to come yet.  
  
I want to make you feel the way you made me feel, I say, and his lips tilt.   
  
I feel pretty damned good right now, he says. Slow. We have all day.  
  
So I touch him the way I touch myself when I'm alone in my narrow bed, fantasizing about his mouth, the way his lips quirk up in that sexy half smile; about his long-fingered hands, the way the tendons shift when he plays his guitar for me; about that piece of flesh that I had glimpsed on the dive ladder. I flick my short, unpainted nails over his small tight nipples and find myself becoming very aroused by arousing him.  
  
He watches my face as I touch him, reaching out a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. Pretty, he says. Have I told you that?  
  
Suddenly self-conscious, I blush and look down, and as I do I see his penis, the head red and smooth, straining up, hard. I did that, I think. I made him hard. I look up at him again, and, looking into his eyes, I feel pretty. I feel foxy. I feel hot, and shivery, and, oh, God, I love him so much.  
  
I trail my hand down and touch him again. Touch that flesh that is somehow both hard and soft. He doesn't stop me this time.   
  
I watch his eyes until they close, his face going dreamy. His mouth opens on a groan, and he throws an arm up over his head to grasp the headboard. His stifled moans and the tiny, involuntary thrusts he makes are dizzying.  
  
His hands come down hard on mine, tightening, making me stop. Maybe it's better this way, he mutters, half under his breath. His eyes are glazed, and he's breathing hard. Do you... do you want to? he whispers.  
  
Want to? I ask, thinking oh, God, YES! and then: what if I get pregnant?   
  
He sees my hesitation, and tilting my face up to his, kisses my mouth gently. If you don't want to, that's--  
  
No, I want to, my body says, my heart says, and, I see in his face, my mouth says. His eyes are so green.   
  
I've never-- I start to say.  
  
I know, he says. It'll hurt a little, but I'll take care of you, baby.   
  
Yes, I say.   
  
***************  
Twelfth Entry  
***************  
  
My voice woke me, saying his name, saying it over and over. My pillow is soaked.  
  
I'm not going to be able to get this out. I don't think I can do it.   
  
It's so hard to write about him. I'm overcome anew with grief, fresh and sharp as it was that day, unbelieving as I was that day. We had everything and it was gone, gone so motherfucking fast.   
  
My fault, my fault.  
  
***************  
Thirteenth Entry  
***************  
  
I'm fucking Alex in a small, enclosed space. I've got one leg hooked around his hip, barely standing on the toes of the other foot, my skirt crushed between us, crumpled on my belly. My blouse is hanging open, the buttons gone. The back of my head hits the wall with every thrust he makes inside me, pushing me up and back, up and back, and he's biting my shoulder, teeth embedded, snarling, until I'm crazy with it, screaming at him, harder you bastard, fuck me harder! as I chase my orgasm, the orgasm I'm very close to, the orgasm he's too selfish to help me with other than giving me his cock in such a caveman fashion.   
  
Night comes down like a fucking hammer and we writhe against each other, twisting and clawing, flesh slapping flesh, closer, closer, oh, oh, oh oh oh  
  
Is this memory? Or fantasy?   
  
Christ.  
  
I don't know.  
  
***************  
Fourteenth Entry  
***************  
  
He leans back against the pillows as I kneel up next to him and he grasps his cock, stroking lightly, unconsciously, the sight making my breath come short and fast.   
  
Oh, God, Randy, I whisper.  
  
You like this, he says.   
  
I nod and he grins at me, his hand moving slowly up and down, up and down. Then he surprises me, reaching out to grasp my hand with his other hand, kissing the knuckles.   
  
Touch yourself, he asks. Please?  
  
Wha-what, I stammer.  
  
Please, he asks again, placing my hand on the slope of my breast. You do, don't you? Touch yourself?  
  
Uhmm... well... yeah, I say.  
  
Do you think about me when you do it? I think about you, he says, before I can answer. I think about kissing you, touching you, what it would be like to be inside you.   
  
The mere thought of this is making my legs tremble and my hands shake. He feels it, and asks me if I'm scared.  
  
No, I say, I'm not afraid. And I'm not. I'm nervous, and I'm excited and I want all those things. For him to kiss me. To touch me. To be inside me, fucking me, making love with me.  
  
Will you do it for me, he asks, and I give in, sliding my hand down until it brushes over my nipple. It's hard and aching and I rub it slowly, watching his green eyes ignite, watching the sharp intake of his breath.  
  
See, he asks. It works the same way on me. His eyes are wide and fixed on my hand and he's stroking his cock faster now, his grip tighter.   
  
I bring my other hand up to cup my other breast, and he moans deep in his throat, the sound tearing loose something inside me. I slide my hand down into the warm dampness between my legs, feeling the familiar slippery slide over the hard bud of my clit and I gasp a breathy little noise of pleasure.  
  
Jesus! he says, looking down, then back up at my face as I moan softly. I watch him, his green eyes, his tongue coming out to wet his lips, as I rub my clit in small circles.  
  
I want you, want you bad, he says. He closes his eyes for a moment, then looks at me.   
  
Touch me again, he asks. Make me come, baby. God! I could do it myself - hell, just looking at you is almost enough to do it, but I want you to do it. Make me come.  
  
My eyebrows shoot up. I thought you wanted-- I say.  
  
I do! And I love what you're doing now. I just want to be able to last inside you longer than two seconds, he says, shaking his head. And I want your hands on me again. I'll be ready again in a little while, and then we'll... uh....  
  
Yes, I say, putting my hands on him.   
  
***************  
Fifteenth Entry  
***************  
  
Consequences are dangerous things. They sneak up on you.   
  
Let me put it another way: Everything has a price.  
  
Everything.   
  
All the necessities of life have a price.   
  
The heart has a price.  
  
So does the soul.  
  
***************  
Sixteenth Entry  
***************  
  
We're eating apples. The sharp, crisp flesh cracks between our teeth and the juice runs down our fingers. The flavor bursts in my mouth, sweet and tart, tasting like sunshine. We lick at our fingers, first our own, then each other's, eyes meeting. He rubs his apple over my lips and follows it with his tongue, his clever tongue, rough and quick, sweeping away the juice.  
  
My apple falls to the grass and he's on me, pushing me back to the blanket, his mouth hard and demanding against mine, fingers sliding up under my skirt and tugging at my panties.   
  
It doesn't seem to matter that it's broad daylight and we're in a public park. It doesn't seem to matter that there is a dog barking in a maddeningly obtuse way not 40 yards behind the screen of elms. It doesn't seem to matter that the only thing he wants from me - the only thing he's ever wanted from me - is the thing he's busily divesting of clothing right now. It doesn't seem to matter that the only thing I want from him is sex, as filthy as we can do it, any and every way of fucking. It doesn't seem to matter because then his fingers are on me, inside me, sliding easily in my wet heat.   
  
He rolls off me and then sits up against the tree, unbuttoning his pants. His erection, never confined by underwear, oh no, no boxers or briefs or even boxer-briefs for Alex Krycek, juts out of the opening. I climb on top of him and his cock glides right up, up and in, and he adjusts my skirt so that we could be any two lovers, nuzzling and kissing under the elms.   
  
But we're not. We're not lovers. We're fuckers, the both of us, and even as I grind against him, small movements that could be mistaken, at a distance, for dry humping and not the true act, I hate him for it.   
  
I hate myself.  
  
I try to keep my body still, eyes linked with his. His arms come around me, hands clamping on my hips, stopping even those small, almost involuntary movements. Be still, he says, and he smiles at me with even, white teeth as he rotates his hips the minutest amount, twisting his prick inside me, just like stirring a cake batter.   
  
Stirring. Twisting.   
  
I catch my breath and my upper lip in my teeth. I clench at him, my vagina rolling in a convulsive precursor, and his eyes widen briefly, then narrow. There is sweat at his temples and his shirt is damp with it.   
  
But even so much as he is mine, I am that much more so his. I am unable to keep the movements small, fighting the grip on my hips, unable to keep the sounds quiet, biting at his mouth with my teeth, unable to keep from raking at his hands, his hips, with my nails because I can't stand it, he has to move more than that, he must move!   
  
He has me though, and knows it. He laughs as I try to stifle the moans that his twisting tears from my throat.   
  
Move! I hiss at him. Move!   
  
He raises an eyebrow, still laughing.   
  
Move! I clench at him again and then he does move, his eyes blazing, and I remember why.   
  
I remember.  
  
***************  
Seventeenth Entry  
***************  
  
I lay my head down on Randy's shoulder as his breathing returns to normal.   
  
Well, at least to not gasping.  
  
That was so... I say, then stop, because I can't find the words for the beauty of it, of him: the stone hard flesh of his bicep straining with the tight grip on my hand in his, held with fingers meshed, as if he wanted to anchor himself as my other hand jerked at his cock roughly, much more roughly than I expected he would want; his harsh words encouraging me to do it faster, harder; the muscles in his thighs trembling, then firming as his toes dug into the sheet; the transcendence that took his face from boyishly handsome to a shadow of the man he would become, his eyelashes dusting his cheeks with dapples and the sensual sweet curve of his lips stretching wide as he grit his teeth against the groaning pleasure of it, as his body drew taut as a bowstring, buttocks coming off the bed as he came in great, sputtering arcs, the force of it jetting up in a smooth, slippery line that streaked up to his nipple.  
  
I'm slick with my own wetness, and a hollow, yet somehow pleasant, empty ache is lodged between my legs. Pleasant, because I know it will soon be remedied, when I take that thick shaft into my body.   
  
***************  
Eighteenth Entry  
***************  
  
Why, oh, why do I keep dreaming of Alex?   
  
Pervasive bastard has invaded my dreams, lodged somewhere between that twisting ache in the belly that is horrified guilt and that insanely hot place between my thighs that my head speaks to: green eyes, look at the green eyes.   
  
Green.   
  
Damn him and his motherfucking green eyes.   
  
That's why.  
  
Green.   
  
Pretty eyes. Deep and so clear you could fall into them.   
  
Look at the hair, that silky hair. Look at it!   
  
Don't see him.   
  
Don't see  
  
Oh, fuck.   
  
***************  
Nineteenth Entry  
***************  
  
We lay kissing, caressing each other. For a long time, he strokes my hair, pulling it away from the back of my neck to snuffle gently at the hollow there.   
  
You always smell so good, he says, and you taste incredible. I want to find out if you taste that way all over.  
  
My heartbeat, which had been slowing, jerks up to pounding again.  
  
Your breasts are sweet, and salty, he says, tasting them again, the tip of his tongue coming out to lick the undersides. Do you taste that way here, too, he asks, gliding his thumb over the apex of my thighs.   
  
A nervous knot tightens in my stomach. Why... why don't you find out, I ask, and my eyes meet his.   
  
Oh, yeah, I'll find out, he says, and I'm drowning in green glass, like the bottles I keep in my bedroom window to reflect the light, green glass that glints and flares and seems to ignite with flame.  
  
He rolls over and stands up, his erection standing away from his body at a 30 degree angle.   
  
I watch the smooth muscles in his thighs and butt as he walks to the door, totally unconcerned of his nudity. I watch the play of light on his back as he double checks the lock.  
  
He walks back toward me, slowly, looking at me. His gaze travels from the red painted toenails on my feet, lingers on my damp curls, then fixes on the bruises on my hips and upper thighs.  
  
Our eyes lock.   
  
I-- I say, sitting up, pulling my knees up and crossing my arms over my crossed legs, making myself a pretzel, hiding my body from him in a way I know is stupid. He just saw me, and I'm hiding. I duck my head down.  
  
He sits beside me on the bed. Where did you get those bruises, he asks.  
  
I shake my head. There's no way I'm going to tell him about the man who has recently moved into the downstairs apartment. About his pinches and slaps on the ass, barely veiled in joking. About his eyes, which are hollow, empty dark holes.  
  
Not now.  
  
Those bruises... he says.  
  
They don't matter, I say. Not now.  
  
He chuffs out a sigh, looking at me closely. I can tell he's not satisfied with my answer, but he decides to let it go. He knows I'll tell him. I just need some time.   
  
He touches my elbow, the least threatening place he could possibly touch. Baby, I know you're not sure about this-- he says.  
  
I'm positive, I say, and, looking up at him again I know it's true. This is right, and good. This is what I want, and who I want.  
  
I want you, Randy, I say. I want you to be my first.   
  
But, he says.  
  
But, I say, I'm afraid I'll get pregnant.   
  
His smile starts slowly. His eyes narrow slightly. First one corner of his mouth tilts up, then the other.   
  
Does that smile mean you've got a rubber? I ask.   
  
He nods, once up, once down.  
  
Oh, good, I whisper. I start to uncurl. Good.   
  
***************  
Twentieth Entry  
***************  
  
But, if I could take it all back, would I?   
  
Would I?   
  
***************  
Twenty-first Entry  
***************  
  
You can still change your mind, he whispers in my ear. We'll stop. I promise.  
  
I promise. I promise. He only said it once, but I hear it over and over. He isn't just promising to stop if I chicken out.   
  
He is promising it will hurt as little as possible.   
  
Promising he wouldn't hate me if we stopped.  
  
Promising he would take care of me.   
  
Promising.  
  
I know I shouldn't say this, he says. I'm not just saying it. I hope you know that.   
  
What? I ask.  
  
I love you, he says.  
  
***************  
Twenty-second Entry  
***************  
  
I am strapped to a metal table, cold and hard and smooth. My wrists and ankles are chafed because I've become a writhing, twisting, screaming thing, full of black fire and endless convulsions as my body fights to expel – what?  
  
I'm not sure. All I can remember is that Alex Krycek is the reason I'm here, the reason I'm suffering, the reason I want to rip and tear out my own eyes.  
  
Even as he was fucking me, he was fucking me over.   
  
That's what fuckers do, and I should have known it.   
  
Should have expected it.   
  
After all, I'm a fucker myself.  
  
Every bill comes due, and some come due with interest.  
  
***************  
Twenty-third Entry  
***************  
  
Pretty, he says again. You're so pretty. When did that happen?  
  
I shake my head, but his eyes are hot on me, making my skin flush all the way down to the tops of my breasts, my nipples standing out firm and hard.  
  
You look good enough to eat, he says, and my heart speeds up even more. He leans over and kisses me, and I lose myself in the taste of him, the scent of him, soap and something else I've never been able to pinpoint. I know it's not cologne, he doesn't wear it, but he smells so good, the barest touch of something.   
  
He pushes me gently onto my back, now looking at the hair covering my crotch and I suddenly remember how we spent my fifth grade summer, his seventh, he studying the book of anatomy as closely, if not more closely, than I had, spending hours on the picture of the female genitalia, memorizing every swoop and whorl of inner and outer labia, the small bud of the clitoris hiding under its hood. We couldn't decide how it should be pronounced, clitORis, the second syllable decisive, or cliterus, all slurred together, me thinking it was the first, he leaning toward the second, until we looked it up in the unabridged dictionary at the library and discovering that both were correct.   
  
He looks up and smiles at me. Do you remember-– he starts and I finish –-the anatomy book? We start laughing, and the nervous knot of tension in my belly loosens a bit.   
  
I've never done this before, he says. Never really wanted to. But with you, you - he kisses my ear - just taste - he sucks my nipple into his mouth - so goddamned – his tongue slips into my belly button - good. He slides down between my spread legs and helps me get comfortable, adjusting the pillows so I can see him. You'll have to let me know if I do it right.  
  
Then his head dips down and I feel the brush of his cheek against my thigh.   
  
***************  
Twenty-fourth Entry  
***************  
  
The design, sticky strands, like a spider's web, is torn by the insect caught there.   
  
Sometimes, the flight of the insect is unknowing, the danger of the web unseen.   
  
And sometimes, the insect throws itself headlong into the beauty, not caring about the pain.  
  
Where is the plot? The theme?   
  
There is no cohesive whole here.   
  
***************  
Twenty-fifth Entry  
***************  
  
I hadn't expected the heat of his mouth, and when it closes on me, when he kisses the lips between my legs, just like he kisses my mouth, I gasp in mingled shock and excitement.   
  
Oh! I say.  
  
His lips curve against me and then he starts nuzzling, nibbling, tugging at my hair with his lips and my hips rise to his mouth, following his mouth.  
  
He puts a hand on the inside of each thigh, pushing back gently and I let him, opening wider. His thumbs slip down into the hollows where my legs plump out into downy hair and he draws my labia apart, raising his head a bit to look at me.   
  
Much prettier than that dry old book, he says, and his tongue darts out to touch me. I thrust my forearm into my mouth and bite down to keep from shrieking. That silky touch, that lick, oh, God, and then he does it again, more slowly this time, starting at the bottom of my cleft and finishing, ever so lightly, on my clit.  
  
Randy, I say. My voice is shaky.  
  
You taste good, baby, he says, looking at me as he licks his lips. It's slightly disconcerting, his eyes peeking over my mound.  
  
Really, I ask, not... fishy? I hadn't meant to ask that, it just popped out, that fear.  
  
God, no! he says and touches me with his tongue. Taste good.   
  
My clit feels like a kernel of popcorn ready to burst from the heat of his mouth, hard and full. If he licks me there again I don't know if I can stand it.  
  
I've heard about oral sex, of course. But I never thought that Randy would want to do it to me. His obvious arousal at doing it excites me even more. He groans when he puts his mouth on me, like he's starving and I'm just the thing he wants.   
  
It feels so good to have his hot, wet mouth on me there, his tongue stroking me, sliding into me, then out, like his fingers did. I wonder if that's what it will feel like when he puts his cock inside me and I shiver, my hips moving restlessly beneath him, rising toward him.  
  
He cups my butt in his hands and lifts me so he can reach me more easily. He finds my clitoris and mouths it. I find can stand it after all, it's wonderful, and I reach down to grab his hair to keep him there. He glides his tongue all around my clit, but doesn't touch it again directly. It feels incredible, that hot slide of tongue around and around, I love it, but suddenly it's not enough, and I start to pant, gasping.   
  
He thrusts his tongue into me again, in and out, in and out, licking up into me and a low, animal sound comes from my throat.   
  
Oh, yeah, he says, low and deep, his fingers digging into my ass.  
  
I put my hands down on the sheet and grab fistfuls of it, afraid I'll pull his hair out trying to get him where I want him.  
  
I know what it's like to come. I've done it by myself, burying my fingers between my legs at night, mostly while fantasizing about him, and he made me come just a little while ago, but this is different. The heat of his mouth, the slick wetness of it, the firmness of his teeth behind his lips, the stiff thrust of his tongue deep into me...  
  
Far away I hear myself say, Randy, Randy, please, oh, don't tease me, please!   
  
He starts to lick at my clit gently, and I rock against his mouth and moan, Oh, God, yeah, Randy, that feels so good --there, oh, there!   
  
Your clitoris, baby, he says, his tongue dancing over me as he forms the words, muffled, yet his pronunciation is still perfect.  
  
Yes, my clit, oh, Randy-- I say.   
  
I'm right on the edge, and I only know that he has to keep licking me there, that I'm going to come, and say, now, oh, please, now, make me, Randy, please-- and he licks at me faster --make me come, yeah-- licking hard and fast now --Randy!  
  
I see he's thrusting at the bed beneath him as he licks and then he draws my clit into his mouth and sucks gently as his tongue strums against it and that hard, full kernel of excitement pops in my belly and explodes out of my mouth as I keen, I love you, I love you, I love you!  
  
***************  
Twenty-sixth Entry  
***************  
  
I wait.  
  
I wait, curled up in the tiniest ball my body can manage.  
  
I wait for the next one to come through the door, not seeing me - not looking at my brittle, filthy hair or jagged fingernails, but only seeing tits and ass and cunt.  
  
The door opens and he steps in, anonymously male. I don't bother to look at him.   
  
It's all the same to me.   
  
My body is a reflection of my misery.   
  
I hurt.   
  
My breasts ache from being twisted and bitten.   
  
My vagina is a fiery cold cavern of despair.   
  
And I deserve it all.  
  
***************  
Twenty-seventh Entry  
***************  
  
That was awesome, he says, gathering me up in his arms to kiss me.   
  
I kiss him back, fiercely, tasting my slick fluid on his lips. No, it's not fishy. More like charcoal. Not unpleasant.  
  
I love to kiss you, he says, kissing me again. Kiss you all over.   
  
Wasn't that song just on the radio?   
  
Did I do it right, baby, he asks, grinning at me.  
  
I slap at his stomach and he oofs. You made me come, I answer, and he nods.  
  
I know. It's a good thing my parents aren't home, he says.  
  
My eyes widen and I put my hand over my mouth.   
  
He pulls it away, entwining his fingers with mine. No, I liked that you talked to me, that you told me what you wanted, he says. It was so hot.  
  
I never thought you'd want to do that, I admit, watching his hand stroke my fingers.  
  
You mean eat you, he asks.  
  
I nod, and he says, I've wanted to do that for a long time. I loved it. I loved that I had to hold you down while you came. I loved what you said while you were coming. He grins again, and says, I must have done it right.   
  
***************  
Twenty-eighth Entry  
***************  
  
The door opens.  
  
No one comes in.  
  
Yet the door stands open. I don't know how long it is before I realize that the way is there; I can get up, get out, get gone.  
  
Gone from this place where I've become little more than an animal, taken out to be exercised and inspected, to be poked and prodded and injected, and then brought back, fucking for the privilege of bad food and stale water.  
  
I'm alive, and I might even be sane.  
  
Might be.  
  
That remains to be seen.  
  
I don't know if I want to leave. As hard as this time - how long? I don't know – has been, it's been a time of no responsibility, and no expectation other than that of my body being present.   
  
I can be far away, in fresh fields of flowers - not corn - that don't hum of bees.  
  
A quiet, almost-not-there voice says something guttural in Russian.   
  
I know that voice.   
  
I know that voice.  
  
But although I understand it, what it says makes no sense to me, and I throw my plate at it. The plate strikes the door jamb. It doesn't shatter. It can't. It's hard, cold metal, and the sound it makes is ringing and huge.  
  
No one comes to investigate the clamor.  
  
A long while later, I get up and walk out the door.  
  
***************  
Twenty-ninth Entry  
***************  
  
I watch him as he digs through his nightstand drawer, coming up with a condom. He rips the package open and, seeing my interest, hands it to me. Put it on me, he says.  
  
I turn it over in my hands, trying to figure it out. It's warm and slippery, a stiff ridge around the outside and sheer in the middle, with a dimple in the center.  
  
Like this, he says, taking my hands, drawing them to his erection with the rubber held between them. Make sure the tip faces out and then you just roll it down, he says. His scholarly tone makes me giggle. He looks up at me in surprise, then grins.   
  
I look back down. He lets go of my hands, then steadies himself with a hand at the base of his cock. The head is bulbous under the thin sheen of rubber and I have to push hard to get it started. Once that's done, the condom unrolls easily. I don't take my hands away, but keep stroking him, the feel of him different now. I wish I was on the pill, so he could be in me bare, nothing between us but our own skins, touching everywhere.  
  
It looks uncomfortable, I say, and he shakes his head slightly.  
  
No, it's not, he says. It just cuts down sensation a bit. He tilts my head up until my eyes meet his. That's a good thing, because I want to fuck you for a long time, he says.   
  
I shudder at the words. That forbidden, secret phrase, the one I've fantasized him saying, but never thought he would, takes on a whole new meaning, now that I'm on the brink of it. That he knows me so well, knows that trigger phrase and how it would affect me, is exquisitely exciting.   
  
I want it.   
  
I want to make love with him, yes, I want the sweet tenderness of joining, the whispered words of love, but I also want him to fuck me, to have me, to make me, to be with me.   
  
My universe has narrowed to his bed, his body, his hands on me and his cock in my hands.   
  
His hands trace small, complex patterns on my skin, dots and whorls and zigzagging lines of sensation. My eyes slide shut; the green of his eyes is a corona of color too bright to stand.   
  
I want to find out what it's like to be inside you when you come. I think I can do that, he says. Make you come while I'm in you, while I'm fucking you.   
  
Every word he says causes my inner flesh to convulse helplessly.   
  
I open my eyes and look into green so depthless it's like the sea.  
  
***************  
Thirtieth Entry  
***************  
  
The air is clean. The sky is a deep, blameless blue and I stand, blinking in the bright, warm sun.   
  
A two-lane blacktop stretches for miles in either direction and I have no idea where I am, where I've been.  
  
I don't look behind me.   
  
I don't care.   
  
I'm free.  
  
Free!  
  
There are no more men to come and fuck me dry. No more instruments to probe coldly, callously, ripping flesh.  
  
No more needles, no more hard surfaces, no more drugs.  
  
There are birds singing, sweetly, in a copse of trees beside the road.   
  
***************  
Thirty-first Entry  
***************  
  
I wouldn't take back a second, not a moment, of the time we spent together. I can't regret what we did.   
  
It was the best thing that's ever happened to me.   
  
***************  
Thirty-second Entry  
***************  
  
When he settles once again between my legs, he just holds me. Holds me tightly, telling me that he loves me.  
  
I love you, too, I say, and kiss him, my eyes open and on his, and I feel like my heart will leap out of my chest and into him.   
  
I want you, Randy, I say. I want you to be with me.   
  
Be my first.   
  
Be my only.  
  
Here, then, he says, and rises up a little so he can slip the head of his penis into me. Hold on to me. I've got you.  
  
I hold onto his shoulders and I hold my breath as he pushes. The tip of him slips into me with little resistance, but then, oh, he's too big, it won't fit!  
  
Easy, he says, and kisses me, his hands stroking the hair away from my eyes. His face is strained now, and his eyes are distant and far away.   
  
Randy, I say, and my voice is querulous.   
  
Breathe, he says. Don't forget to breathe, baby.  
  
I suck in air.   
  
Do it! I say. Just do it!  
  
He pulls back a little, then thrusts in and, God! that hurts, and I moan wretchedly.   
  
Easy, he says again. We'll be nice and slow, and-- Jesus, you're tight, baby.   
  
He closes his eyes and stays still, even though I can tell he wants to move. His whole body is quivering. His face is flushed and the hair at his temples is damp with sweat. A vein in his throat beats wildly. Even though I know he's not that big, I feel like a balloon stretched to the point where it'll pop.  
  
At least I don't think he's that big. For all I know, he's enormous. He certainly feels enormous.   
  
I remember to breathe. Tears stand in my eyes. I blink them out and they run down into the hair at my temples.  
  
He takes a deep breath himself, then he opens his eyes and they focus on mine, green and green and green. Don't cry, baby, he says. That was the worst of it.  
  
Okay, I say. Okay.  
  
He kisses me, his mouth gentle and light. I open my mouth and let him in, and it's like kissing him for the first time, that unbelievable rush of excitement and newness; the thought that Randall Scott has his tongue in my mouth making me tremble, just as it had then.  
  
His penis deep inside me is also making me tremble. My body is adjusting around him and I don't feel like a fish on a hook anymore.   
  
We kiss and kiss, only our mouths moving, tongues touching, tangling, deep and slow and hot. He's taking his time with me, and I relax by slow degrees, the tension in my legs loosening, my nails coming out of his shoulders to curl in his hair, pulling him closer.   
  
He keeps kissing me, breathing my breath, stopping now and again just to look at me. He caresses my face, my hair. My breasts feel full and hard, the nipples rubbing up against his chest in a most delicious way.   
  
Randy, I say.  
  
He shifts the smallest bit and I catch my breath.   
  
You feel so good, he says, and moves again, just a little.  
  
My mouth parts on a gasp and I draw my legs up a bit and move with him, wanting that slow slide of friction. He's still too big, way too big, but now that my body is no longer fighting him I can feel the way he flexes inside me, his cock twitching.   
  
He touches my breast, rubbing his thumb over my nipple and I can feel it all the way down, connecting to that place where he lies between my legs. He keeps rubbing it, then draws it between his finger and thumb, pinching gently, until I moan, not wretchedly this time, but with an aching want.   
  
Hot and tight, he says, drawing back and thrusting forward, into me.   
  
The sound that leaves my mouth is somewhere between a whimper and a moan, a breathless exhalation of want. It's the words, I realize, as much as what he's doing. The fact that he's talking to me, telling me how he feels--   
  
He must feel the same way, because he says, talk to me. Tell me how you feel. He's rocking gently, slowly.  
  
I think about it, trying to think of the words to describe what I'm feeling. I feel full, I say. Stretched. And oh! that feels good, but it's not enough. I want you deeper, faster.  
  
Good, he says. That's good. He starts to move a little faster.   
  
I gasp and say, it is good. You feel huge inside me and just when I think that I can't possibly take any more--  
  
I can feel you clench around me every time I touch your nipple, he says. He does it again and then groans, yes, just like that, as I tighten around him. God! he moans, when you come, I'm gonna go off like a rocket.  
  
That slow burn is heating up, heating up fast. It's like being two parts of one whole, like being so connected that you'll never again be apart. The rocking we're doing is so unlike what I expected. It's slow and deep and oddly personal, which makes no sense, but does. It's the closest we could possibly be, a physical sharing and expression of the love we've already declared in words. The words, so important, are magnified by the action.  
  
I start shifting under him, meeting his slow, regular thrusts with my own.   
  
Now, he says, tell me what you want.  
  
I arch under him, my hips rising to his and say, I want you.  
  
Want me how, he asks, his voice deeper, a bit breathless. To do what?  
  
I want you like this, I answer. I want you to-- I hesitate and meet his eyes. They're getting a little glassy.  
  
He keeps rocking, easy and steady, and it's hard to remember the question. His cock, enormous or no, is sliding easily now, in and out.   
  
In, and out.   
  
To--, he asks, and does something, makes some minute adjustment to his body position or to the speed of his thrusting. I don't know what it is, but my eyes go wide and I moan helplessly, clutching at his shoulders again, my nails digging in, my legs coming up to wrap around the backs of his thighs, holding him close.  
  
Yes! It comes out breathy, and it sounds sexy. Randy, I say. Randy, oh, yeah! as he starts pumping harder. I want-- I start.  
  
There is a distant, wet sluicing sound. It's us, making love. Us, fucking.  
  
Yeah? It's almost a groan, his voice even deeper, even more husky. Tell me.   
  
I want-- oh, God, I want to to come, I say. Make me, make me come. Fuck me.  
  
He shudders, clenching his teeth, making a deep, animal sound in his throat, and adjusts again, drawing up on his hands so he has more leverage. The new angle makes me cry out, totally engaged now, his in a way I wasn't two seconds ago.   
  
It feels different from before, from when he made me come with his fingers, sharp and hard; from when he made me come with his mouth, the heat and silk of it. This is impalement on pleasure, and if he was big before, now he's huge, enormous, hot, hard--  
  
This is what it's like. He loves me and he's fucking me and he loves me and oh God!   
  
***************  
Thirty-third Entry  
***************  
  
His weight comes down on me, the solid, heavy feel of him pressed against my breasts, my belly, the cradle of my thighs. He's not a big guy, more wiry than anything else, but he's solid.  
  
I gather his hair in one hand, holding the silky strands, rubbing them between my fingers. Red glints in the sunlight.   
  
We're both slick with sweat, our bodies sliding and sticky. His chest and my breasts separate as he shifts, and a hollow sucking sound makes us both smile.  
  
I should-- he says.   
  
Don't move, I say. Please. Stay with me.  
  
He kisses my forehead, my cheek, then settles back onto me, into me. It feels so good, so right, to have him there.   
  
***************  
Thirty-fourth Entry  
***************  
  
You fucked him, didn't you?   
  
His tone is disbelieving.  
  
Didn't you?  
  
I stand mute at the top of the stairs, my apartment with its sturdy lock a bastion behind him, unreachable. His presence fills the hallway with righteous anger.  
  
Goddamned whore.   
  
My head slams into the wall, blood trickling from my lips, the hot salty taste filling my mouth. I slide down, dizzy and sick.   
  
Only fifteen fucking years old! You liked it, didn't you?   
  
He hits me again, this time making my ears ring and the light flicker as my eye starts to close.  
  
I can smell it on you! Couldn't wait, could you? Couldn't wait--  
  
The unspoken words - for me - hang there in the air.  
  
I pick my head up.  
  
Fuck you, you miserable prick, I scream. Bloody spit sprays against his face on the plosive p.   
  
His eyes widen and he picks me up by the shoulders, his hands hard and angry, fingernails jabbing into my skin. He shakes me, then slams me into the wall again, pressing up against me with his too-hot skin, his eyes not sane.  
  
His erection is monolithic below the sharp buckle digging into my belly. I turn my face away. The alcohol on his breath smells like lighter fluid.  
  
I bring my knee up between his legs, and he moves just enough that I hit his thigh instead.   
  
His weight comes down on me, pushing me onto my back. I hit the floor with a thud.  
  
He gropes at my breast, tearing my shirt away, the fabric burning across the back of my neck as it rips down the front.  
  
I strike at him and he grabs my hand, grinding the small bones in my wrist until I cry out in pain.   
  
Try that again and I'll hurt you.   
  
He grasps both my wrists in one hand as I buck beneath him, his weight a cruel mockery.  
  
Yeah, that's good. Do that again.   
  
I freeze.   
  
I bet you sucked him off first. His voice quiet now in my ear. Conspiratorial. You won't even touch me, but you sucked his cock.   
  
Bastard!   
  
And then you spread your legs so he could fuck you. He shakes his head.  
  
I look at him. You're a sick man, I say. This is wrong, you know it. Stop.   
  
I told you I'd get you alone one of these days. He hits me with his fist this time, the pain in my eye flaring.   
  
Faintly I hear him say, well, that day is here. The day I get to fuck the princess. Maybe I'll get you to suck my dick, too.   
  
He rears up, his hands going to the buckle on his belt.   
  
Footsteps thunder on the stairs.  
  
Get away from her!  
  
Bright kinetic flashes: Randy's eyes, green glinting dangerously.  
  
He turns, hands still on his fly.   
  
I push away from him, roll on my side and then to my hands and knees.  
  
A long, silent moment.  
  
A drop of blood from my mouth taps the linoleum, a lit match into gasoline.  
  
The stairs.  
  
I'm screaming.  
  
Screaming.  
  
  
screaming  
  
***************  
Thirty-fifth Entry  
***************  
  
Only once did he say something to me that I know was true.   
  
Only the once, and I'm sure it was grudgingly given.   
  
He said it in Russian, and under his breath, but I heard him just the same.  
  
Stop living in the past, and live. You're better than this.  
  
I didn't believe him then.   
  
I'm starting to believe him now.  
  
***************  
Thirty-sixth Entry  
***************  
  
I brought daffodils, knowing that he loved the color, the pugnaciousness of them.   
  
I sat down, right on the ground, and spoke to him for over two hours, snuffled and barely audible through my tears.   
  
I told him I was sorry, so goddamned sorry, that he paid the price for my cowardice. I should have told someone about the man sooner.   
  
I told him I looked for him in other men, thought I had found him, but what I found was superficial and nothing like him, no, not at all.   
  
I told him how I remembered that afternoon in his bedroom, the heat of the day, the heat we created together.   
  
I told him I loved him, still, loved him, but was ready to try and live with the happiness we had made instead of the misery that his absence left behind.  
  
Finally, my throat raw and aching from tears and talking, I bent and kissed his headstone. The daffodils were crushed, but I left them anyway, knowing that he had always accepted me, treasured me, flaws and all.  
  
He would still appreciate the flowers' beauty.  
  
***************  
Thirty-seventh Entry  
***************  
  
This wasn't a dream.   
  
Wasn't.   
  
It was real and it was true.  
  
Is this what I'm coming to?   
  
Oh God.  
  
I now own a vibrator.   
  
Purchasing it was a very intriguing experience. I decided to get one from one of those Lover's Lane type shops, the kind that cater to newlyweds and fetishists.   
  
The young saleswoman was quite lovely; fresh and lithe, with ginger hair and freckles. Her name was Merigold, of all things, and it suited her rather nicely. Not that I can talk about names. She wore her green wrap-over top and short gray skirt very well, indeed.  
  
She asked me if the vibrator was a gift. I thought about lying, then decided why bother? I told her no, the vibrator would be for me. Her gaze changed, somehow, becoming speculative and...smoky would be the best word, I think.   
  
Oh, she said. I think I can help you. Her heels clicked on the tiled floor as she walked to the door. It was late, and she flipped the OPEN sign over to CLOSED. Then she walked back to the counter and pulled out the most outrageous selection of items while I watched, shaking.  
  
A veritable wonderland of self-fucking.  
  
There were some oddballs - a few small metallic egg shapes and several brightly colored butterflies on cords, along with a couple of sets of ben-wa balls, but most were phallic in shape.  
  
There were so many!   
  
Small ones and large ones, all manner of color, natural and unnatural. Pricks that plunged all by themselves. Most of those were flesh-toned with ridges that looked like veins - one even squirted out a warm fluid in pulses on command - so realistic-looking that I was amazed. Hard white plastic bullet shapes in multiple lengths. A large, economy-sized ebony one; it curved up just a bit and had a slight sideways bent. It put me in mind of a Masai warrior. Looking at that one made me flush all over, the shape more so than the color. And a neon green one that looked downright dangerous, it was so huge.  
  
You know how some things occur to you when there's no one around to appreciate them? Well. Who would want to fuck themselves with a huge green cock?   
  
This baby will send you right into orbit, Merigold told me, pointing out a vibrator that was moderately alarming. She was standing rather closer than I was comfortable with.   
  
Would you like to try it? She smelled absolutely delicious, like pumpkin bread, warm and spicy. I'm sure I was stained quite pink, but I also felt a tingle of awareness, of an undercurrent. She shushed my feeble protests, telling me not to worry, the door was locked, there was a nice comfortable area in the back. Telling me that I may as well make sure I would be satisfied with my choice. Her hazel eyes sparkled at her bon mot.  
  
After all, she said, there are no refunds.  
  
***************  
Thirty-eighth Entry  
***************  
  
Her lips make me think of orchids, scent and sight and luscious dew, petals curving; the root and stamen hidden beneath and her pistil reaching, seeking the sun, that gentle liquid lick of golden light, that heavy beating of warmth that causes color to bloom and scent to blossom.  
  
She tastes like tears.  
  
***************  
Thirty-ninth Entry  
***************  
  
Crafting  
  
Once, I was a daffodil  
yellow and bright,  
sweet smelling, vibrant  
and new  
  
But, I was  
crushed, dulled  
to rusty brown  
unhappy and old  
  
Then, I was dug over  
made new again  
time underground  
giving me rebirth

**Author's Note:**

> MC
> 
> I would appreciate feedback in any shape or form.


End file.
